A Rich Man's Dust
by Fletset
Summary: AU. After losing a football scholarship due to an accident, Stanley Marsh accepts a job as a servant for the town's richest guy: Kyle Broflovski. Eventual Style, collab with eishi.
1. Chapter One

**Disclaimer: **We do not own South Park or its characters.

**Authors' note I: **we planned on writing this since June, I think, and now, we are proud the present the Fletset-eishi collaboration! Hopefully you will enjoy this and hopefully, updates won't come too far in between.

**Authors' note II: **English is not our native tongue, please feel free to correct us on any mistakes in grammar or spelling you may find.

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**A Rich Man's Dust**

Chapter One

Stanley Marsh had rarely felt so nervous as he did that very moment. Even if the temperature was barely fifty and the spring wind was a bit cooler than usually, he felt sweat drops running down his neck.

Alright, so maybe he wasn't looking the best he could. Maybe he should've combed his hair and changed his old college sweater to something more professional before coming here. Maybe he should've even put on a dark suit – but he shook his head to this thought immediately, as his only suit had been ruined in the graduation party. Perhaps he should've changed his sneakers, at least...

Stan shook his head again and straightened his back. If he was going to see one of the richest people in South Park, in _the_ richest area of town to do something as humiliating as to beg for a job, he should and would and could look poor. Pity points for him, perhaps? He took a deep breath and slowly opened the white, curly gate. It didn't creak at all, as he had assumed it to, but then again, this was no old haunted house from a horror movie. He entered the garden timidly, and was at awe immediately.

The blood-red roses filled the left side of the path; even the grass in front of them was neatly grown, as if it had been cut with nail scissors. On the right side he saw an ocean of bright yellow flowers, slowly swaying with the wind.

He stared blankly at them, trying to recall the name. His ex-girlfriend had nagged him to buy flowers often, and he knew he _should_ recognize this one... Deafmill? Daftdill? Or something like that.

Stan stopped for a moment to observe the house – or, more like mansion. It was a newly-built one, but made to look like it was much older with some clever tricks in the windowsills and corner decorations. Stan could hardly count the windows that filled the creamy white wall, and even if he normally didn't care for one bit about something as trivial as stairs, he just had to admire the way the stone gleamed and how there was a handrail only on the left side.

He took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.

It seemed like an eternity before he heard footsteps approaching, but he wished that the door would never open. When it did, he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, wishing that he would disappear instantly.

"Yes?"

Stan slowly opened his eyes and saw a strikingly red-haired man eyeing him curiously and partly amusedly.

"I... um. Uh..." he gulped, but felt suddenly calmer when he noticed that the man wasn't that much older than him; maybe in his early thirties? Feeling a rush of confidence, he decided to start over. "My name is Stan Marsh. I've... I've come to ask... if, um, there's any job here I can take?"

The redhead cocked an eyebrow and his lips curved into the tiniest smile, but Stan found it hard to decipher the meaning behind this facial gesture. "A job?" the man asked, as if he had not heard the first time, door still only open halfway.

Had Stan already not been so humiliated, he might've felt a teeny weeny bit hurt. "Yeah, I..."

_To hell with it_, he thought, and continued: "I heard you needed a servant, and, well..." He smiled confidently, but was well aware of how his eyes gave away his true nervousness. "Here I am."

The redhead chuckled and crossed his arms over his chest, eyeing him with a little interest. "I see," he said and nodded slightly, closing his eyes briefly and opening the door fully as he opened them again. "Well then. Come on in, and we'll see if you're qualified."

Stan followed the man inside, observing his surroundings. The first thing he noticed was that the hall was incredibly large and full of all kinds of small decorations, candles and flower arrangements, but still, it was very neat, everything almost shining. On his right was a huge staircase, build in the Victorian style (Stan assumed so, since he knew nothing of architecture) and made of dark oak. On the left side was a door, slightly ajar, and Stan could see that behind that there was a hallway. The red-head lead him to a huge living room, and the only word to describe it perfectly was, in Stan's mind, a simple 'whoa'. The room was lit by several chandeliers, made of crystal and gold (another 'whoa' entered Stan's mind). This room was even more decorative than the hall: there were millions of small crystal animals arranged in a perfect line in the brown shelf that took most of the left side of the room; many strange-looking candlesticks; large paintings by some past masters (Stan even thought he recognized one as Monet's); a sofa; an oval table and four chairs around it. The man sat down by the table and gestured Stan to do so as well. He hesitated a moment.

"Um, uh... I'd prefer to stand," he finally blurted out, when the man's gaze had turned to somewhat confused.

"O-kay," the man stuttered, pursing his lips slightly. "So then, mister... what was your name again?"

Stan could have been offended: he _had_ introduced himself already, but since he needed to make a good impression, he just smiled nervously. "Stan. Stan Marsh."

Then man smiled. "Stan. That's a nice name. Is that a short for Stanley?"

Stan cringed – he hated his real name, as his mother had always yelled that ominous "Stanley!" when he had done something wrong – but quickly masked his cringe as a smile. "Yeah. I mean, yes, sir."

The man nodded again at him and turned his look to the oval, dark table. He quickly pulled back a drawer and took out some papers, spreading them in front of him. "Alright then, Stanley." Stan cringed. "Tell me a little bit about yourself."

"Um... okay..." Stan gulped under the red-head's look, and continued: "Uh, what do you want to know, exactly?"

The redhead quirked an eyebrow, staring oddly at him. "Anything you believe will help me assert an opinion on you."

"Oh, okay," Stan said, feeling incredibly stupid. He had been here for only five minutes, and made a fool of himself already! "I'm twenty, finished my high school two years ago and... I need a job. I'm willing to do anything. Um, I mean, not _that_ literally, but metaphorically, or something..."

The man chuckled softly. "I see. You said you finished high school. What about college?"

Stan frowned. He knew this would come up, but he really didn't want to talk about his college experiences. On the other hand, lying wouldn't do any good either. "Well, I got a scholarship there, but, uh... lost it after an accident. I was a member of the football team and hurt my leg, and I couldn't play anymore. And, um..." He grew more and more uncomfortable under the man's gaze, but bravely continued: "I can't afford college, so I'll have to wait for few years and gather money for that."

_Great, just put on a rag and start begging on money_, Stan cynically thought to himself.

The man nodded again, then sighed softly. "I see. Well, I hope your little accident won't bother your work here. That is, if I decide that you will do it."

So he hadn't noticed the limping yet. Stan decided to selfishly use that at his advantage. "N-no, it won't. My leg's completely healed, I just can't play anything rough again."

_For a lifetime_, he sighed in his mind, but said nothing aloud.

"That's good then," the redhead said, scribbled some things down, and turned the page. "So tell me, Stanley," Stan cringed again. "Why do you think I should hire you or for the job?"

_Oh, shit_, Stan thought. He really hadn't thought about that. "Well, I... I'm really handy at anything practical, like fixing stuff"—lie—"or cleaning"—another lie—"or cooking"—well, that was a half-truth—"and, uh, showing people out."

_Crap. No making jokes at first meeting, dumbass!_ Stan panicly thought.

The redhead blinked. "O-kay... hopefully, that last merit won't be needed," he said, marked something down and lifted his head up to stare up at him again.

"I'll be honest with you, Stanley." _Oh, nevermind._ "I only need one servant. This house, though big, does not need two. My previous servant, a kind lady, had to quit a few days ago due to old age. As you can probably notice, the house is already beginning to mess. The job is mainly to keep the house clean and cook for me, as I don't really have the time to do so myself. You will get one day off a week, mostly Monday, as this is the day in which I attend to business meetings in Denver. Payment is fair, I believe, and you will be allowed to live here. If I may say so myself, I think living here would be for the best, as the house needs frequent care. Any questions?"

Actually, there were millions of questions in Stan's head, but he couldn't say anything.

_Only one servant in a mansion like this? Are you nuts?_

_What is your name, for god's sake, I told you mine!_

_What's the pay like?_

_Live here? With you? Oh, god, what will all my friends say!_

Instead, and against a better judgment, he just said: "When do I start?"

The man smiled and put the papers down. "Whoever said you're hired?"

Stan put a puppy look on his face: he was disgusted to use that weapon, as it was something he usually did to entertain his father and to beg something from his mother, but since the man hadn't yet thrown him out, he might as well. "I make delicious pancakes." (That wasn't a lie, he had once gotten even his sister to grunt that they were good.)

The man laughed. "Alright, alright. Look, you seem like a trustworthy person, though I don't know about your ability to keep this mansion intact. Tell you what: I'll let you work here for a month, a test period, if you will, and we'll see from there, okay? Just to make things clear: I'm only hiring you because the only people who came by for that position were some blond girl who apparently thought she'll get a shidduch"— what? — "out of it, and some guy who couldn't even button his shirt right. Do you think you can start tomorrow?"

Stan smiled widely. "Sure!"

The man rose from the chair and smiled widely at him. "Okay, great. I'll show you around, and you can come here tomorrow as early as possible." He started going back in the direction they came, and then the man stopped abruptly and turned around to face him. "By the way, I seem to have forgot my manners. My name's Kyle. Kyle Broflovski."

Stan, wanting to make a good impression, plainly answered, "nice to meet you" and gave a polite smile to Kyle.

"...right. Follow me."

They went back to the hall, and turned to the hallway that Stan had seen when he entered. There were five doors, each of them ajar. (This seemed to be typical in the Broflovski manor, Stan noticed.) Kyle opened the first room, not entering it.

"This is the kitchen," he presented, gesturing Stan to come closer. Stan took a peek in the room: it was considerably small for such a big house, but it had everything a cook would need, starting from a high-tech oven to an induction stove. There were piles of dishes everywhere, half-eaten sandwiches on the counter, a cucumber on the cutting board and a tea pot filled with (probably cold) tea.

Kyle coughed softly into his right fist. "As you can see," he started, moving slightly to the left in order to allow Stan to enter the room, "it's a tad messy. I'd like you to clean around here first thing tomorrow morning."

Stan smiled awkwardly, bad thoughts already starting to fill his mind. Even without the cucumber, or the tea pot, or the piles of dishes, the fact that one of the Teflon pans had been clearly misused and that the kitchen knives were in completely wrong places in their own, wooden rack was enough to make Stan doubt that this was the worst thing he'd see in this house. His new boss was obviously _messy_, not just "messy".

Oh, and top of that, without any information of the real world. Stan cringed at the thought of _him_ using a Teflon pan like that – his mother would've yelled for him for hours.

Aloud, he just said: "Sure."

"Okay, great," Kyle said and gestured for him to follow him farther down the hall. He opened a narrow door and switched on the light. "This is the storage room. You know, cans, drinks, various food items. I hope you will find it usable. Oh no, no need to enter," he said as Stan tried to pass him into the room. "Just know it's here. Now," he continued, closing (not fully!) the door behind him. "Over here," he pointed to the right, "is a room I think you'd find enjoyable. It has a pool-table, beer fridge, big screen TV... over there is my work room. Please, always make sure to knock before entering! Over there," he said as he pointed at the last door in the hallway, "is a small lounge. I have a few books there, I hope you will enjoy them."

Kyle put a finger to his chin then, thinking deeply. "Though I believe you will find most of them boring, as they deal with economics and the likes." Stan frowned. Kyle apparently noticed it, as he waved his hand quickly and continued: "Not that I look down on you, I find them boring myself."

Stan found himself suddenly smiling to this strange man, especially after this last line. Kyle nodded to himself as he made sure he covered all the rooms in the main hallway, and then turned around and walked back the way they came, gesturing Stan to follow. They returned to the hall in which Stan had been interviewed, and Kyle led them to a big glass door. He pressed a switch and the shade was pulled up, revealing a huge back yard. Kyle unlocked the door and led them out. "The gardener tends the front and back yards about three times a week. It's a shame that the weather's been chilly lately... As you can see, there's a wooden sitting corner under that gazebo over there..."

Stan's eyes widened as he admired the gaz-what-ever, never having seen one before. All the flowerbeds looked impossibly perfect, only completing the look of the smaller building. It was the color of cream, with a tad darker roof and white roses planted all around it. His instant reaction was: "Can I spend my breaks in there?"

Kyle laughed heartily. "You can spend your breaks however you'd like. Now, follow me." Kyle led them to a long shade, where Stan's eyes widened at the large, heated pool he saw there.

A "… can I live in there?" escaped Stan's lips before he could even think, _no dumbass, still no making jokes at first meeting._

Kyle laughed awkwardly at his statement. "No, no. Come on, let me show you to your room."

They went back the same way, through the living room and hall, now only climbing up the stairs to the next level. There were too many rooms for Stan to count at one glance (all with their doors slightly open, except for two), but Kyle dismissed them and led him to the last door in the huge hallway. Stan briefly noted that all the doors had different kind of decorations on them and were made of different woods; the house was suddenly starting to look like an absurd collection of abandoned puzzle pieces.

Kyle opened the door and entered. "This is my room," he said, pointing at a huge, oval bed next to the window. The room, though big, contained only a closet, a small vanity, and the bed. What seemed like a very expensive carpet covered the floor, and a small door at the side led to a private bathroom. "Off-limits, besides when you clean," Kyle said firmly, stepped out and closed the door after him. "Now, to your room," he said.

Stan's soon-to-be-room was at the other end of the hallway. "I hope this serves your expectations," Kyle said as he entered.

Stan felt a small pang of disappointment when he first looked at the room: compared to the earlier decorative halls and pool tables and heated pools, it looked quite simple. There was a bed in the left corner, a closet next to it (its door slightly ajar, naturally), a table beside the window, from which there was a clear view to the garden and the gazebo. On the right side of the room there was a small bookshelf that took only one third of the wall space, and a painting hanging next to it. Stan didn't recognize the artist, but one thing he realized: it surely wasn't as valuable as the ones he had seen in the living room or in the main hall.

"It looks nice," he said, feeling actually satisfied after he'd observed it for a while.

"Great," Kyle said and went to the closet, and Stan stared in confusion as he opened it and retrieved a black dress, French-Maid style. "Unfortunately," Kyle said as he observed the dress, bemused, "I do not have an outfit ready for a male-servant. I do not assume that you'd like to wear this dress..."

"Huh? NO!" Then Stan caught himself, trying to mend his aggressive outburst: "Um, I mean, uh, that would be, kind of... you know... um..."

"Gay?" Kyle suggested, frowning.

"Um, that too," Stan confusedly admitted, trying to come up with a better word, "but I mean... uh... _awkward_. It wouldn't even fit me."

Kyle stared at him for a few long seconds, then shook his head softly. He approached Stan and put a long, slender arm on his shoulder. "You're cool," he said simply and went out.

Stan blinked few times. _What... just happened?_ he thought confusedly, not able to decide was his new boss a little strange, really cool or a nutjob. Finally, he just concluded that whatever the reason, Kyle seemed to like him, and that was what mattered most right now.

Kyle showed him to the front door and opened it with a smile. "Well then, Stan," he said, and Stan breathed a sigh of relief as his new boss finally used a _normal_ name. "It was nice meeting you, and I will see you tomorrow morning." His cell-phone rang suddenly, and Kyle fished it out of his pocket, a huge smile spreading on his lips as he saw the caller ID.

"Token!" he said happily into the phone, then looked down at Stan with a confused look that said:_ are you still here?_

Stan took the hint, smiled a bit and waved. Kyle didn't answer to his gesture, but Stan hadn't expected him to: after all, the door was already half-closed and he was talking to his cell enthusiastically.

As Stan stepped out of the large gate, he felt his own cell vibrating in his pocket. He took it out and answered quietly. "Hey mom," he said. "Yeah, yeah, the... owner accepted me. No, not a waiter, I'm the uh... cleaning... guy. Yeah, I know, can you show me a bit how you're cleaning? No, I'm _not_ having a concussion, I need to learn how to do it for the job, okay? Yeah, see you soon. Bye." He hung up, stared at the clouded sky and sighed heavily, wondering how to phrase his moving-out statement.

Stan pocketed his hands with a renewed confidence. Hey, at least he had a job now. Who cared about the fetishes or abnormalities of his boss, like inability to close doors or misusing pans, when he had a place to live and reasonable paycheck?

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_To Be Continued…_

Please review if you liked it!


	2. Chapter Two

**Disclaimer: **See previous chapter.

**Authors' Note: **We know. We don't have a satisfying excuse for that… year delay, but we're not abandoning the story (as you can see)! Hopefully, updates will come regularly from now own… :)

Don't be feeling down. If we keep up this pace, we'll finish the story before the year 2019!

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**A Rich Man's Dust**

Chapter Two

The night was a bit colder than usual, so the two friends decided to have their drinks inside, rather than on some bench near Stark's Pond. The pond was where underage teenagers used to gather and drink until they puked their soul out, but even though Kenny was already legal, they couldn't bring themselves to move their drinking meetings to another place. Tonight, however, as was mentioned above, it was a bit too cold for the pond.

Kenny's house was a wobbling shack. In their younger years, rats used to run all over the wooden floor and pester the McCormicks, but sometime during middle school welfare services managed to move them to another house. Still crappy, but at least in that one the roof only leaked during the early months of winter.

Stan sat on a torn and stained beanbag chair while Kenny sat on the bed, flipping idly through some racing magazine from two years ago. "So," he started, taking a long gulp from his dad's Carlsberg, "how's the new job?"

Stan took a sip from his own can, feeling oddly miserable and happy at the same time. "I've no idea," he stated and returned to his drink. "My new boss is some kind of a nutjob. I don't know what to think of him."

Kenny cocked his left eyebrow and played with his can of beer, making the liquid inside swish with a noise only he found pleasant. "What do you mean?" he asked.

Tough question. Stan himself couldn't put his finger on just what made Kyle Broflovski – he had repeated the name a dozen times this evening in his head, just so that he would remember it tomorrow morning and could greet the older man – short, cunningly smiling Kyle Broflovski so… so… so.

"I don't know does he have a sense of humor at all, or is his humor something that I can't understand." Stan debated for a moment in his head if he should mention the thing or not. "He offered me a maid's dress as my work uniform."

Kenny chuckled openly, not even trying to hide his gloating. "Oh, I would have loved to see you in that one," Kenny said and laughed, stopping just for another gulp of beer before continuing to laugh even louder than before.

That shook Stan off of his daze. "Kenny! You're sick, man!" He spilled some of the Carlsberg as he tried to hit the laughing Kenny in the face. He missed, and Kenny didn't shut up.

"Oh man," he said, his laughter now reducing to a mere chuckle. "Your aim is shit, too. I don't think he was that far from the truth about you!"

"Shut it, Ken," Stan muttered, his cheeks now noticeably redder. It was the alcohol, surely, that made him miss Kenny's big fat ugly head. It was the alcohol that had made him mention the dress when he knew very, very well that Kenny, of all people, just wouldn't let it slide.

Kenny's walls were pale orange: the color reminded Stan the jacket Kenny had used when they were ten or so. In fact, everything in his wardrobe had been orange those days, excluding some band shirts. Orange. Stan stared at the color, the beer can trembling in his hands. It was strange: they were adults now, or at least trying to be, with varying results, and yet, nothing had changed. Kenny was still his best friend. They still spent every Friday night drinking their sorrows away and talking about nothing until dawn. He still couldn't hit Kenny in the face. Kenny still had that obsession with racing cars and collected small Gundam models. Stan still played football.

His leg twitched unconsciously.

"Seriously, Kenny," he sighed, "it's not funny. I mean, would you wear a girl's dress for a job like that?"

Kenny seemed to ponder that for a second, then smiled and nodded vehemently. "If he pays enough – and by enough I mean five bucks an hour – sure, I'd be willing to do that." Stan frowned. After a short silence Kenny seemed to be struck with something. "I think he's gay," he said.

The sentence didn't make Stan spit out the beer that was waltzing on his tongue, but it did make him stop drinking any more.

"What?" he asked, eyes wide. "Of course he's not! Don't be stupid, Ken, he's just… he just has an odd sense of humor!"

Kenny held his chin in thought, then shook his head. "No, no, I'm sure he's gay. Why else would he offer you to wear a dress?" he asked, finished his can, and continued. "How old did you say he is?"

"Thirty… something, I don't know. Why does it matter?"

Kenny nodded to himself. "He's not married, is he?"

"Um… I don't know. I think not. I think he would've said if he had a wife hidden somewhere." Stan narrowed his eyes. "Kenny, stop making that face. It's annoying. You… you're doing it again, acting as if you know something I don't and you're not going to tell me what it is." Stan dared to take a sip again. "And he's not gay. Just…kind of odd."

Kenny shrugged, not seeming to believe his friend even a bit. "If you say so… Say, he doesn't need another servant, does he?"

Stan broke into laughter, the first one in a while. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? No, he doesn't. Face it, Kenny, you're still broke and owe me, like, sixty bucks."

This time it was Kenny's turn to frown in annoyance. "Oh, fuck you Stan," he said, then thought for a second as the smirk returned to his face and he looked at Stan with an evil sparkle in his blue eyes. "And the sooner your new boss takes care of that – the better!"

"Kenny," Stan said coolly, "shut. Up. He's not gay, neither am I, and that's the end of the story. It's more like _you're_ the gay one here, with the way you seem so fixated on the idea!"

"I'm only realistic," Kenny replied, enjoying messing with his best friend's mind. "Are you willing to bet on it?" he asked, the chance of making easy money never escaping him.

"No," Stan spat poisonously. Silence fell over them, the only awkward sound coming from the broken heater behind Kenny's bed. Stan's frown faded within few moments of silence. "How would you even check if he's… you know, you can't just break into people's bedrooms. Not even a pervert like you."

Kenny's smile widened and his eyes gleamed dangerously. "Oh, I have my ways, Stanley dearest," he said, licking his lips as if to emphasize the point.

"That's it. I'm going home." Stan stood up fast – a little too fast indeed. Blood rushed to his head, making him wobbly and spill the remains of his drink all over Kenny's dirty floor.

Kenny looked up at him, still highly amused. "Hey Stan," he said, causing the black-haired man to look at him curiously. "You know who else can't hold their liquor?"

"Who?" Stan asked, too confused about which way was up to see the danger in Kenny's rhetorical question.

"Girls," Kenny said simply.

Stan tried to say something, probably something about wishing Kenny a happy trip to hell or how he was not a girl, but didn't manage to say anything. He simply passed out at Kenny's feet.

* * *

The roses seemed to be just as stunningly red as they had been yesterday, but the other flowers were a little down. Stan closed his eyes as he walked straight (or, in the name of honesty, tried to) and slowly towards the Broflovski estate. It was five minutes to nine in the morning, and Stan was not particularly enjoying it. Before going over to Kenny's house yesterday evening, his mom had showed him everything everyone needed to know about cleaning and cooking. Mops, buckets, carrots, different types of macaroni and iron boards were rushing through his head. It was slowly dawning to him that he knew nothing about the things he had claimed to be so great at, and his new boss would find that out soon.

Also, it did not help that he was having a hangover.

Stan hesitated at the door. Should he ring the bell or should he just go in? He was, after all, an employee here in the main house, and he was about to move in here. He wasn't just some random gardener who came in a few times a week.

He took a deep breath, rang the bell and winced at the sound the moronic bell made. Why couldn't everything just _shut up_ right now and let him die in peace?

It wasn't long before he heard footsteps and his new boss opened the door, a bit wider then yesterday. He stared at him curiously, examining him from top to bottom and causing him to feel uncomfortable_. It's like he's undressing you with his eyes_, Kenny would say. No, Stan wouldn't think of the conversation they had yesterday right now.

Kyle was smiling the tiniest of smiles before he opened the door fully and invited his new employee in. "Mi casa – su casa," he said. "You're a bit early. I'm pleasantly surprised," he added.

Stan smiled nervously. "Good morning," he said. "I, uh, so, where do I start? Cleaning first?"

Kyle laughed heartily and patted Stan on his back, pointing at the suitcase at his feet. "Why not start by getting adjusted to your new room?" he asked.

Stan twitched a bit under Kyle's touch, but tried to mask it as an excitement. "Well, alright." He smiled widely, but the gesture seemed hollow even in his own head. "My room was… uh… this way?" He pointed at the stairs, having already forgotten how wide they were.

Kyle nodded and gestured for him to lead the way. A few steps and a near, well-masked stumble later, Kyle asked, "You were living with your parents, weren't you? How did they accept your decision to move out?"

_Over my dead body, Stanley Marsh! You__'re disabled, for Christ's sake! It is okay for you to earn your own living, but you'll be safer here with us! What would your boss say if he knew that you're _hiding_ a football injury?_

Yeah, his mom hadn't taken it well, but Kyle didn't need to know that.

"Pretty well," he shrugged. "Besides, I already moved out once. I lived at the dorm when I was in college."

"That's great to hear. It's my first time hiring someone younger than me," Kyle said, nodding to himself as if pleased with this prospect. Once they got to his new room, Kyle was still looking at him with that tiny smile.

"Tell you what," he said as he turned to doorknob and opened the door. "I still haven't finished my breakfast, so I'll get back to that. In the meanwhile, you'll unpack and try to get used to this room. Meet me in my workroom when you're done. Remember to knock first!" he warned before he turned around and left in the direction in which they came.

The door was slightly ajar, so Stan moved to close it. He looked around at his new room, the panicky state somewhat lessening. He actually liked the room, the soft light its windows gave and the meek colors of the walls.

He glanced at his suitcase. Maybe it was wise to leave it in its unpacked state for a while.

* * *

Kyle sighed heavily as he sat at his large desk, eyeing the piles (or towers, rather) of papers on top of it. Probably half of them only needed his signature, but those he hated the most – it meant he actually had to _read_ through them. A brown file caught his eyes and he rubbed his temples tiredly. Even though it, too, dealt with a trial like the rest of the files in his room, it was somewhat different.

It dealt with his trial.

Kyle Broflovski was being sued. By Eric Cartman. About some fake claim regarding animal cruelty his trading company was involved in, or something. It was the third time in five years, and Kyle was getting tired of it, and he guessed the court was, too.

After all, Eric Cartman always lost.

He was about to go through the first pile of papers for the day when his cell-phone rung. Kyle fished it quickly out of his pocket and smiled. "Token," he greeted.

"Hey baby," Token said with a low dark baritone. His voice was unique, dark and smooth, (like his body, Kyle noted) and it usually gave people chills – in a good way.

Kyle was not an exception.

"Hi," he breathed into the phone, enjoying the reaction. "You're up early today. Couldn't sleep because you can't wait for tonight?" Kyle asked, his eyes skimming over the first page of some lawsuit he was the defense attorney for, but not really reading.

"Tonight?" Token breathed. "Oh, yeah, The Dinner. Kyle, honey, have you hired a new butler? Please tell me you have. I really didn't enjoy the food you made last time. No offense."

Kyle pouted. It wasn't his fault that he missed the second Sedder with his family and had to improvise something. He loved gefilte-fish, but for some reason, his tasted like a matzoball. Token seemed to think that, too, even though he refused to touch anything that looked like a carton-board and thus had no way of knowing. "Oh, I did, don't worry. Some college dropout," he replied, picking some noises from the kitchen. "He's cleaning right now," he said, proudly.

"College drop-out?" Token repeated, humor in his voice. "Poor fella'. I hope you're not paying him too well." He chuckled. "Actually, I'm glad we're having dinner tonight. I get to see you"— Kyle got radiating by just hearing that—"and I get to check out your new servant. You know, to make sure he doesn't try to steal away my property."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that," Kyle replied with a wave of his hand even though Token could not see it. "You should have seen the face he made when I offered he'd wear a dress." After a second of a thought, he added huskily, "And I can't wait to see you, too. Three days is a long time."

Token hummed in agreement. "I'll call you later, honey. I've got a meeting to attend. Boring as fuck, but what can you do. Someone has to make the decisions." His voice dropped. "See you tonight."

Kyle nodded in agreement to himself and was about to voice some cheesy parting words when the sound of breaking… _thing_s caught his ears. His green eyes widened.

"Yeah, around eight thirty like we discussed. Bye now!" he said quickly and ended the call, pushing himself up from his desk and running towards the kitchen. He held the door-frame as he got there, his eyes roaming around in panic.

Stan was standing next to the counter with pieces of broken china at his feet. "What's going on here?" Kyle asked quietly, trying to digest the scene.

"I, uh…" Those two words seemed to be Stan's motto. "I'm _so_ sorry! I tried to organize everything, so I sorted the plates according to their size, and then the biggest pile started to fall, so I dashed to catch it, and I did save it, but then another one started to… and I…" Stan stared at his feet, his face glowing with embarrassment. "I'll go pack my things now. I'm so sorry."

Kyle blinked and made a step forward, looking around in silence. "No, no… there's not need for that…" he said quietly. "Those were just plates, nothing too expensive. Just… clean that up and go buy new ones later today," he said. "You can use my Mercedes for that." Then his eyes widened with realization. "Oh, right, I totally forgot. Token's coming over for dinner tonight," he said, absolutely forgetting that Stan had no way of knowing who Token was.

Stan blinked, but didn't show his confusion otherwise – he got to keep his job? Who was Token? He had to serve dinner for two? And wait, use someone's Mercedes?

Maybe his boss was a bit cooler than he had originally thought.

"Thank you," he quietly said. "I, uh, I'm going to get… something… to clean this up." He backed out of the kitchen, and repeated, "Thank you."

Kyle stared after his retreating form and shook his head slowly, not able to prevent a smile from forming on his lips. Then he remembered all the work he had left and frowned. "Someone has to make decisions, huh…" he said quietly to himself, repeating Token's words. _Hopefully, I made the right ones…_

* * *

Making dinner for two (or three, since Stan hadn't eaten himself anything all day) was way more difficult than he had ever imagined it to be. Alright, maybe his mom's demonstration on "how to prepare and serve a fine dinner", ten minutes in length, hadn't taught him everything he needed to know. Stan had no idea what to do with all the food he had bought – tuna fish, meatballs, tenderloin of a calf, spaghetti, vegetables – and no idea what to do with all the knives and cups and salad plates. Throughout his high school, his mom had always cooked. Throughout his college year, he had eaten cup noodles or at the nearby McDonalds's and college restaurants. Stan, as he now painfully realized, was not a very good cook.

So far, the day had not been a pleasant one. First and foremost, he was having a hangover. Second, he had broken a dozen of valuable plates he could never afford to refund. The only silver lining had been the fact that Kyle – bless that enigmatic man – had merely blinked at the catastrophe and handed him the keys to his silver Mercedes. In fact, it was a Mercedes-Benz CLS 55, and they only produced something like 1000 or the likes a year. Stan had been in heaven when he had driven the car. It moved so smoothly, so elegantly, and the looks on everyone's faces! He had had a chance to pretend what it would be like to own a car that cost in minimum $90,000.

Then another disaster had struck. It hadn't been his fault, though, that the parking lot of Target had been crowded, and as he was looking for a place to park (as close to the store as he could, obviously), some idiot had decided to test how fast his car could accelerate to 25 miles per hour. They had crashed, in a relatively low speed – the driver hadn't gotten very far from his parking slot, so the crash had happened in the whopping speed of 6 miles per hour. Stan had panicked while the other driver had just flipped him off and left, without saying anything. Still in a panicky mode, Stan had rushed to the food section, bought everything his shaken mind could think of and paid with the credit card Kyle had given him. Then he had rushed off to the next section to buy some plates – he had chosen the first ones the employee recommended to him, and because they seemed pretty enough (blue flowers, birds and something else blue) to satisfy Kyle's expensive taste.

But, when he had gotten back and confessed Kyle about the bump that now decorated his brand new Mercedes' front door, Kyle had simply waved him off. "It's okay, my father bought it for me as a birthday present. I don't even like it that much. Though," he had added, just when Stan had sighed with relief and thought he was on the clear, "if you had destroyed my Maserati, I would have crushed you."

Stan hoped the smirk he had flashed was only a part of the joke.

Kyle had left Stan alone in the kitchen after that, and Stan had spent the first five minutes drinking two energy drinks and rummaging through cookbooks. He had settled for Spaghetti Bolognese – it was simple enough to make for many people, and plus, Stan figured even he couldn't ruin a dish that easy.

He turned out to be wrong.

The spaghetti was cooking nicely (almost boiling over) and the minced meat was almost done (burned), when the doorbell rang. Stan put down the knife he had used for salad leafs – he vaguely remembered his mom saying something about washing them first, but he had forgotten to do so and went straight to the cutting part – and waited for a moment. He was a bit confused should or should he not go open the door, but when there were no footsteps of his new boss, Stan abandoned the boiling spaghetti and went to the door.

The doorbell rang again, this time much louder and in an irritating manner, which certainly didn't improve Stan's crushing hangover. Stan rolled his eyes. "Yes?"

On the other side of the door stood a black man clad in a business suit, which looked as if it cost like Stan's entire wardrobe. He was looking at his Rolex impatiently when Stan opened the door, and as the man looked up, his brown eyes narrowed. "Hello," he said coolly.

"Um, hello. You must be Token." There was no reply, other than a cold, calculating look from the other man. Stan rushed on: "Come on in. Kyle, uh, Mr. Broflovski must be in his study."

"Well, obviously," was the curt reply. The guest sniffed the air. "What's cooking?" he asked.

Stan resisted the urge to answer 'I wish I knew'. He had spent less than a minute in the company of this Token figure, and he already hated the guy.

"Just some Spaghetti Bolognese and a Greek salad," he humbly replied. He hoped that Token got the stinging tone underneath all the politeness.

Token blanched. "Spaghetti?" he asked. "I haven't eaten that dish since like… high school. Did Kyle tell you to make that?"

"No?" Stan tried. Not very assuring. "He told me to cook whatever I felt like." Time for the oldest excuse in the book. "I left the kettle on, sorry!"

Token watched the hurriedly retreating figure with mild interest and a deep frown. As the new servant – who in his rudeness forgot to present himself – disappeared into the kitchen, Token set out to look for the Jewish man.

He didn't knock – as he didn't need to – and as expected, Kyle was sitting at his desk, reading glasses on, and going through some papers. Token liked the glasses. "Hey, baby," he said.

Kyle looked up and a huge grin crossed his face. "Token," he said quietly, allowing the man to bend down to kiss him quickly on the lips. "It's good to see you."

"Good to see you too," Token repeated and smiled. His smile was a darker version of Kyle's crooked smirk – this one was a full smirk, with calculatingness written all over it. "I saw your new servant. Not a very impressive one, I'd say. I liked the old lady better."

Kyle sighed. "Yeah, I know, but what can I do… this place was beginning to look like a dump. I gave him a trial period of a month, we'll see how he manages." He gathered all the papers into a single pile and rose from his seat. "Think dinner's ready?" he asked.

Token smiled evilly. "I think so. Tell your butler to set up the table. I'm rather hungry."

Kyle smiled back, kissed Token chastely on the lips and left the room with the black man in tow. "Stan!" he called into the hallway.

A few steps down the hall, Stan shivered as he heard the call. He peeked into the hallway. "Y-you called?"

"Yes, in fact, I did," Kyle said as he approached him, a smirking Token behind. "Is dinner ready? We're hungry and I still have much work left to do."

Stan would have openly glared at the guest's face if he hadn't been in such turmoil – broken plates, a crashed car, and now this. He smiled.

"Yes, it's ready. I'll go set the table."

"You mean you haven't yet?" Kyle asked with a slight frown on his face.

Stan panicked. Token hid a chuckle behind Kyle's back. "N-no, I, uh, forgot. I was so absorbed in making the food. I'm sorry, I'll go do it right away!"

Kyle sighed and rubbed his temples tiredly. "He's just starting, Token," he said, sensing the other man's amusement.

Token shrugged and glanced at the kitchen door, which was now wildly waving after Stan's speedy exit. "Fine, but I think you're being too nice to him. Do you know what he's cooking?"

"No, I didn't ask, I was too busy."

Token chuckled again. "Well, you'll see. Maybe you'll be harder on him next time."

There were frantic voices coming from the large hall – apparently Stan was setting up the table. Token clicked his tongue. "The next thing you know, he'll break all your fine china."

Kyle looked up at him, face marred with confusion. "He already did. What did he make?" he asked as they started making their way towards the dining hall.

"You'll see," Token smiled sweetly. "After you, my darling." He held the door open for Kyle, and they entered the hall.

As much as Token had criticized Stan's abilities, he had to admit that the table looked very nice. All forks and knives were in their place, there were flowers on the table and white-wine glasses with a white wine bottle placed on the side-table. Stan was nowhere to be seen – he had sneaked back to the kitchen, Token assumed.

Kyle, on the other hand, looked sick to his stomach as he stared at the plates. The blue, kitschy, my-_grandma_-wouldn't-even-look-at-those plates. "What… the fuck…" he breathed, but before he could complete a coherent sentence, Stan rushed in with the food cart.

"Here's the salad, Greek salad with Bulgarian cheese," he simply said as he put the foods on the table with a super speed. His panic had now resulted in a state where he did everything twice faster than normally, because he wanted the situation to end as soon as possible. Token and Kyle stared oddly at him. "And here's the main dish – Spaghetti Bolognese." He smiled nervously. "Please, take a seat."

Token did, still smirking, godamnit, but Kyle remained standing, staring at the table, then at Stan, then at the table again. "I… I can't eat that," he said quietly.

Stan blinked. It… it didn't smell that horrible, did it? "Um, pardon me?"

"It's Passover," Kyle spat. "I can't eat wheat! And even if it wasn't, mixing dairy and meat? I don't _do that_ Stanley, and as we're already on the matter, what in the name of _God_ were you thinking when you bought this set of plates?"

Truth was, Stan hadn't been thinking anything. He had just asked the shop employee what a multimillionaire would like in his estate. Damn it. Thinking back, the employee had surely recommended him the ones that cost most, or the ones no one else was stupid enough to buy.

Stan looked at the ground. There was nothing he could say. "I'm sorry, I…" Wait, there was. "I didn't know it was… uh… _Passover_."

"You didn't," Kyle said, more to himself than to anyone else. "No, I guess you didn't know. Well now you do, so… just… there's a box of matzo in the cupboard above the fridge. Get me one of those and some cream cheese, I'll manage. Oh, and… just… I don't know, sale that… plates set on eBay or whatever, I don't care, but I don't want to see it again," he said, his tone having a finality ring to it. Token was still chuckling to himself. It was getting on Stan's nerves, and besides, he was now fuming inside because Token got to see him so humiliated.

Kyle's look was stern though. Stan bowed as elegantly as he could – which was not much – and rushed away. Token took a seat. "I hope you don't mind, darling, but the meal looks delicious. Are you sure you don't want any?"

"Yes," Kyle replied quietly, his eyes staring somewhere far away. "I'm sure," he finished, sat down and filled his plate with the salad.

They ate in relative silence, occasionally commenting on their jobs, while Stan stood in the background (a white towel draped on his arm and all) and watched them silently. After what was probably half an hour or so (though to Stan it seemed like five) the two rose from their seats. "I know you were expecting more..." Kyle said apolitically to his guest.

Token shook his head. "Just consider what I said about your… servant. I'm heading to L.A. after this, anyway. I can eat on the plane." He bent closer to Kyle. "Besides, I got to see you."

In the background, some kind of a muffled voice could be heard – Stan was blinking at the sight and didn't know what to think. He decided yet to keep his innocent mindset. _That was nothing. I'm just hearing things. Kenny's not right about this thing. Not this one time._

"I'm gonna miss you when you're gone," Kyle said, eyes half-closed, chin up.

Token half-smirked, half-smiled. "Oh, I bet you'll be having lots of fun with your servant," he whispered into Kyle's ear. "If he's here the next time I'm coming for dinner, I'm taking my own butler with me."

"Oh, are you now?" Kyle whispered back, tilting his head to the left just enough for their lips to brush.

_…_

Token smirked again and bent down to kiss Kyle fully on the lips. Stan's world shattered.

_Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck! Kenny was right. Kenny was right! He__'s gay! He's GAY!_

Just then Kyle remembered they weren't alone and pulled back, hand caressing Token's cheek quickly then letting go. "Call me," he said, walking the man to the front door.

Stan stayed behind, still dazed. _He's… gay? And that idiot's dating him?_

And the stupid thing was, despite everything, all he could see in his mind was how Token bent down and kissed Kyle. On the lips. Kissed Kyle. On the lips. Kissed Kyle…

* * *

"So," Kenny started that night, a can of Budweiser in his hand. "I was right, wasn't I?"

Stan stared at his can, unable to say anything. "He's gay," Stan muttered. "He's... _gay_."

Well, except for that one line. It was the only thing Stan had been able to say for an hour.

* * *

_To Be Continued (this time for real!)…_

Please leave review if you liked it!

**Cultural note: **_Sedder_ – the meal of Passover eve.


	3. Chapter Three

**Authors' note: **Once again, sorry for the late delay (at least it wasn't a year this time!!!). We also apologize for the lack of an appropriate reward to the wait, as this chapter isn't as long as the previous one, and we also think it's not that good. Still, we hope you'll enjoy the read!

And so, without farther ado:

* * *

**A Rich Man's Dust**

Chapter Three

If Kyle Broflovski didn't like Stanley Marsh's work, he would have fired the poor new butler already.

That was what Stan had been telling himself every morning since he had moved in at the Broflovski manor and caused a catastrophe after another. Saturday, the day he had started, he had learned that his new boss had an odd diet, something to do with the fact that he was Jewish. Mistake one. Sunday, the day his mother had always woken him at the dawn to get ready for church, Stan had woken up Kyle by his noisy attempts at making breakfast, only to learn that Kyle slept until noon on Sundays. Because he was Jewish – mistake two. Monday, when Kyle had been away, Stan had had his first day off and didn't return to the house before nine in the evening. Kyle had been ticked off, because Stan had locked the house, of course, and Kyle had forgotten his keys. Since Kyle didn't have Stan's number, he had waited for an hour for Stan to get back. Stan assured himself that the hiss-fit his new boss had thrown was because he was Jewish. It had nothing to with the fact that he was a lousy worker. Naturally.

But few days went after that, and Stan started to learn. A bit. He didn't burn breakfast, for example, but he still hadn't cleaned the house properly, since he didn't know where the cleaning closet was – but he was getting a hang of it.

Then came Wednesday. Stan was just preparing the table for a late breakfast (Kyle's eating habits were just as disorganized as his workroom was), when the doorbell rang. Grimacing, Stan abandoned the new dish set he had bought – Kyle had chosen them – and went to the door. He wiped the grimace off and got ready to face Token and his smirk again.

"Yes, how can I help—"

That was not Token. It was a girl. Woman.

The woman looked up at him and her eyes widened, a faint blush spreading over her cheeks. She had long, straight black hair, she wore a business suit and clutched a briefcase to her chest. Her mouth gaped in an attempt to say something, then closed when no words were uttered. When she opened her mouth again she managed to mumble "good morning" before it turned into a shaky smile.

"Morning," Stan greeted back, a bit puzzled. Did he have something on his face? "Did you, uh, come to meet Kyle? I mean, Mr. Broflovski?"

She tensed, not replying, and before Stan managed to repeat the question she nodded quickly. "Yes, we have a meeting schedule – I mean! Sc-scheduled a meeting," she said eventually, her voice squeaking somewhat. "I-if you don't mind me asking," she said then, looking at him shyly, "who might you be, sir?"

"Oh," Stan said, finally catching on. He had replaced an old lady who had served for decades the house… "I'm the new… butler. Servant. I just started, actually," he added with a goofy grin.

"What's your name?" she asked, smiling widely.

"Stan," he blinked, dazzled by her smile. She seemed nice, unlike that one other guest a few days ago. "Stan Marsh. And you are…?"

Just as she had opened her mouth to reply, the answer came from an unexpected source. "Wendy!" Kyle called happily from behind. Wendy was still staring at him, before tearing her gaze away and looking at the redhead. "Kyle!" she said back.

"Stan, why didn't you tell me she's here?" Kyle asked.

"I was just about to," Stan weakly tried, but he was nonetheless ignored. Kyle stepped outside to hug Wendy, who eagerly returned the gesture. They laughed and started to chat quickly, exchanging news about their mutual friends. The names and places they mentioned went on so quickly that before Stan had even processed what was going on, their amiable chat was over and they were stepping into the house.

* * *

Once inside the workroom, Kyle closed the door behind them and sat at his desk, motioning for his guest to take the seat across of him.

"So," he started, crossing his arms over the table and looking at her with hopeful eyes. "Any news?" he asked.

Wendy took a seat, carefully adjusting her lilac skirt. "Well, he's not giving up, that's for sure." She opened her briefcase, arranging many papers for Kyle to see. "Kyle, we both know this is a scam, a completely made-up story, but with Eric Cartman, you can never be too careful. If he has found something, however irrelevant it may be, and has taken it out of context, it may prove to be fatal for you."

Kyle's brow furrowed as he pondered this, tsking with his tongue every now and then as he thought – a bad habit he had inherited from his father.

"Man," he said finally, running a hand through his curls. "I hope I won't have to go there myself and prove him wrong. I can't afford to leave the state. That idiot…" He glanced at the papers, which were strewn around him and picked one up, skimming through it quickly before moving to the second page. "What proof does he have, anyway?"

Wendy shrugged. "Nothing that would hold up in the court. He claims that your company is involved in the animal abuse cases that occurred last year, and that the ones who got condemned were just scapegoats – the real mastermind behind it being you, as the head of the company." She flicked her hair, making it shine vividly in the morning sun. "I suppose he thinks the court will believe it. Many companies have used the same tactic, although with financial crimes."

Kyle drummed the table with his fingers. Wendy took out another set of papers. "Here," she passed it to Kyle, "are the reports from the cases. They have nothing to do with your company, of course, but the thing is… Cartman has somehow connected these small criminals to your trading business."

Kyle growled. "He would do that, the bastard. Always finding something stupid to sue me with… what was it last time? Illegal child labor? He never runs out of ideas…" His frown deepened and he opened one of the drawers in his desk. "Do we have the kosher-keeping council reports?" he asked. No reply came. Kyle looked up and snorted when he saw Wendy gazing into nothing. "Wendy?"

"Hm? Oh, I'm sure he has just bought those criminals to testify for him, there is no real evidence backing his theory up. Their word isn't worth a penny when we prove that your company has never done any businesses with them, or Cartman, or anyone related to him and his companies." She spoke dully, seemingly not listening to herself.

Kyle scrutinized her, displeased, more so with her behavior rather than what she had to say. A light knock on the door was heard and Kyle looked up. "Come in," he called.

There was a nervous Stan behind the door. "Sorry to disturb you, but breakfast is ready. I mean, brunch. Do you need me to serve, or can I go to the grocery store?"

Kyle seemed to mull it over for a brief second, then shook his head slowly. "Are you hungry, Wendy?" he asked his guest, who stared at Stan with glassy eyes.

"Not really, but a cup of tea would be nice. If it's not too much trouble," she hastily added, still staring at Stan and not sparing Kyle a glance. Stan answered to the smile Wendy sent him, obviously pleased.

"Of course not. I'll just go fill the pot." He blinked, since Wendy still hadn't unlocked their eye contact. "Um, anything else you'd like?"

"No, thank you." Wendy shook her head and sent a radiating smile at Stan. He nodded and quickly turned his head to Kyle.

"I'll have a cup of tea myself, I think. Earl Grey, no sugar," Kyle added hastily. "Bring the drinks here and then you can go, I'll eat breakfast later." Stan nodded and was about to leave, but then Kyle surprised him with the most peculiar question: "Would you like me to wait for you?"

"I'm sorry?" Stan said, not sure whether the question was really intended at him. When Kyle was clearly looking at him, waiting for an answer, Stan nervously blinked. "How... do you mean?"

Kyle frowned ever so slightly. "What I mean is, would you like me to wait for you? With breakfast?"

"Oh," Stan said, realization dawning on him. "No, no, you go ahead. I'll hit the grocery store real quick."

"Suit yourself," Kyle replied, eyes going back to scan the papers on the desk. Stan thought he heard some kind of disappointment in his tone, but before he could mull it over Wendy straightened in her seat and locked eyes with him.

Stan sent her a half-grin, nodded again and retreated from the room. Wendy followed the closing door with her eyes, hands reaching for her hair.

"How old is he?" she asked when silence had filled room for a moment. Her index finger was rolling one black lock over itself and tugging it once in a while - something she only did when she was planning something, and it did not always include the thick ethics she was famous in her work.

"Twenty he said, I think," Kyle replied, eying her suspiciously. "He's a bit too young for you, wouldn't you say?"

"Drop that look," Wendy said, annoyed. "It's not like I'm planning to marry him tomorrow, Kyle. Can't a girl have fun once in a while?" Her eyes narrowed into mean slits. "I'm _so_ going to kill whoever started that rumor about me at the office -- I've had three boyfriends, I'm not some kind of a religious prude who looks down on everyone. Why would _anyone_ think I'm a virgin, at twenty-six?"

Kyle looked as if this information was either too much for him or irrelevant to the discussion -- Wendy still couldn't decipher this odd frown of his.

"At any rate, I'm glad he left. You were unfocused as it ̶ " suddenly his eyes went wide and he paled ever so slightly, which kind of looked funny with his red hair. "Wait," he breathed. "Don't tell me… _he_ distracted you when he wasn't even _here_?"

"Oh, Kyle, grow up," Wendy said, not even having the decency to blush. "He's a good looking young guy with wonderful feeling of kindness surrounding him. Every woman with eyes to look would react the same way." She bent forward, a crooked smile on her lips. "And a few men as well, if they weren't too thick-headed to lift their noses up from certain papers."

A deep blush replaced Kyle's previous paleness and he huffed, looking away quickly and not allowing his colleague to scrutinize him farther. "Shut up, Wendy," he hissed. "Why would I even spare a second glance at him? I have Token, who's a perfectly capable man… in various aspects," he added in an afterthought, smiling slightly.

"If you say so," Wendy shrugged, unfazed by Kyle's attempt at making her uncomfortable. Even if they had originally been working partners, their relationship had progressed from that point far further, almost making them friends. Crude jokes and rude hints at homosexuality were nowadays pretty natural part of their communication, even if they both had been unsure of using such methods in the beginning, when they still had been trapped to their roles of "Perfect Businessmen/women Who Do Not Think About Such Secular Stuff."

Wendy smiled again, ignoring Kyle's attempt to seriously look at their papers. "So, you don't mind if I ask him out?"

"Who, Stan? Of course not, though I'd advise against it," he said, turning a paper over only to discover nothing was written on its other side. "He's too young, and clumsy, I don't think I saw him hold a _broom_ properly yet, and besides, he's a _college drop-out,_ Wendy!"

Just then there was a knock on the door, before Wendy could rush to ask about the last part. Stan came in, carrying a tray with two cups and a tea pot on it. Nothing in his expression told whether or not he had heard Kyle's outburst.

"Here's the tea," he said, gracefully placing it on the table. Wendy sent him a thankful look, Kyle just a nod. "There's no sugar in either of the cups, but here's some, and milk, too, if you want to use it." He glanced at Wendy with the last sentence, since Kyle didn't use milk, or anything else for his tea, for that matter.

"Would you like to join us?" Wendy asked pleasantly, ignoring Kyle's piercing glare, motioning for the nearby, vacant chair.

Normally, Stan would have jumped at the chance to speak with a girl like Wendy - beautiful, friendly and lively - but the stare his boss gave him advised him to escape the room as fast as he could. "No, thank you," he said, momentary feeling equal to Kyle and Wendy, and not just a servant. "I'm leaving then. I'll be back in an hour."

"That's too bad," Wendy pouted. "Would you like to meet for a dinner sometime?" Wendy asked him, surprising Stan both by her forwardness, and by the fact that she, for some reason, managed to ignore Kyle's silent rage.

"M-maybe," he smiled, quickly backing out. "I'll... I'll find you. No, you'll find me."

As the door closed, Wendy was already having a hard time hiding her enthusiastic giggles. "He's so cute," she whispered to Kyle.

"For God's sake, Wendy! Couldn't you wait at least until you left?" Kyle exclaimed, face red. From anger or embarrassment, Wendy couldn't tell.

"He was leaving," she defended herself. The fuchsia red on Kyle's face really didn't suit him, and Wendy decided the few jokes she had thought up weren't worth Kyle's rage or embarrassment, whichever. "Alright, I'm sorry for being a teenager a moment there. Now, let's get back to business. We have a few options on how to operate from here."

"I don't feel like it now," Kyle shot back, crossing his arms over his chest angrily. "How can I concentrate on Cartman when that… ordeal keeps repeating itself in my head?"

Wendy bit her lip. "Kyle, what's with you now? Are you really bothered by me flirting with your servant, or is something else the matter? Are things with Token okay?"

Kyle huffed angrily, gathering the papers into a single pile. "Of course they are, why wouldn't they be?"

"You didn't really answer my question," Wendy pointed out dryly.

"I did," Kyle shot back, glaring at her. "Everything's fine with Token."

"If you say so," Wendy repeated in the same dull voice she had delivered the line earlier.

Kyle kept on reading, or rather staring (as he was still bothered by utterly irrelevant things) at the legal papers that were handed out to him, before lifting his head to his slightly red-faced partner. "A dinner, Wendy? Really?"

"What's wrong with that?" she frowned. "You were yourself prompting him to join us! And not in such a professional manner, one might add." She was teasing, of course, twinkling eyes and all, but Kyle didn't seem to take it as humorous.

Kyle huffed and put down the documents, narrowing his eyes. "Well, I wasn't hitting on him! I was just trying to be a good boss, is all."

"Really, Kyle? Really?" Wendy asked, imitating Kyle's earlier tone. "Oh, well, not that I'd blame you for--"

Kyle slammed his hands on the table then, glaring at his friend, seething. Why, Wendy could not tell. "Don't even go there, Wendy! Token is a perfectly capable boyfriend, I don't need your stupid joking!" He cried.

"I wasn't accusing you for..." She stopped, searched for something else to say, scared of the wrath that had appeared so suddenly. "Honestly, Kyle, I was only joking. I didn't imply that..." She stopped again, eyeing Kyle's trembling posture curiously. "Don't take me wrong, Kyle, but are you sure you're not just a teeny-weeny bit jealous?

Kyle's green eyes widened momentarily and an unrecognizable emotion flashed through them for a mere second before disappearing and leaving rage in its place. "Jealous? Of you? Come on, Wendy, be realistic! What is there to be jealous of? That I have a perfectly good relationship and you don't?"

"Come on, my dear simpleton," Wendy snapped, "of _him_! Of Stan, of course! I ask a single, nice-looking guy out, and you throw a fit!"

"Oh, he's just a dumb kid, I mentioned he's a college drop-out, didn't I? Guys should have more than good looks, and I am yet to see any good quality about him," Kyle replied, clenching his fists, still not lifting his glare.

Wendy was not impressed. "If he's that much a nuisance, why not throw him out?"

"Because-" Kyle started, but no other word came out as he kept on gaping. He sighed heavily then and looked down at his lap, finally averting his gaze from his business partner. "Leave it," he said. "It doesn't matter, anyway. Let's just go back to business, okay?"

Wendy would have so loved to tear Kyle's thoughts apart, confront him about this for once and for all, but Kyle's miserable look alone was making her feel extremely awkward. She glanced at the papers, deciding to give her friend a break. "Actually, there's nothing left for you to do. Just read the rest of the papers, I'll contact the other business partners for you, and when we need to go to court next week, we'll be ready. Don't worry about that." She gathered her papers, purposely avoiding Kyle's wondering looks. "Oh, and thanks for the tea. I need to go now, I have another meeting in an hour."

"Yeah, sure," Kyle said weakly. "You know your way out, don't you?"

"Yes, yes," Wendy said, waving her hand. "See you next week!"

She was out of the door quicker than Kyle could blink, leaving only a cup of half-drunk tea behind her. Kyle watched her retreating figure, sighing quietly to himself as she left, still a bit shaken from their argument. He gritted his teeth slowly and glared at his table. Really, it wasn't her fault. She was right, of course, but he wouldn't admit it. After all, it's not like he could tell her that Token has been strangely evasive as of late and Stan's morning smiles made waking up a bit more worthwhile.

As a pang of guilt hit him, Kyle pressed 3 on his quick-dial and waited impatiently. "Token?" he said as the receiving end picked up. "Hi, sorry, I know you're busy, but can you come over? Yeah…" A blush. "If that's how you want to call it, sure."

* * *

As Stan parked Kyle's dear Mercedes-Bentz to the garage (very, very carefully, as he didn't want anymore scratches on it), he thought about the guest they'd had today. Wendy... something seemed like a nice girl. A little pushy, alright, and for some reason, Kyle hadn't really seemed to like him talking to her.

Well, that might as well be because he wasn't supposed to be chatting with guests, but to serve them. _Stupid Stan_, he thought, as he got out of the car, _get over yourself. She's a nice girl, but you work here._

The front door was left open, which alarmed him a bit, but he thought nothing more of it, and went straight to the kitchen with the bags. Kyle wasn't in his study, Stan noted, as he went to clean the tables, and Wendy seemed to be gone too. Someone had clearly eaten the brunch, though. He went back to the kitchen, carrying heaps of used dishes, and then he heard something.

A grunt. Was that a grunt? No, was someone speaking?

Strange noises were coming from upstairs, and even though Stan wasn't completely delusional, he had no particularly dirty mind and didn't want to make any hasty (and obviously, totally wrong) assumptions. The noises became louder as he crept up the stairs, and as he reached the second store, he could quite clearly hear that someone was in Kyle's private room.

It sounded like wet kissing and something else. He had a vague idea about what was going on in there, but…. But he was wrong, probably. Maybe just a peek, to see if everything was alright and Kyle wasn't choking on anything. The door was already slightly open (obviously) and all Stan had to do was push his head in the right direction. What he saw made his knees go weak and his heart to sink. Kyle… well, he probably _wasn't_ choking, if the continuous bobbing of his head was any indication. Token's hands were in the redhead's hair as he moaned, fingers massaging, head thrown back… and suddenly Kyle stood up, Token pushed him down and-

Stan turned away, blushing madly, heart thumping in his chest hard enough to break his ribcage and make him forget about the curious stinging in his nether regions.

_Step back, and nothing bad's going to happen_, he kept telling himself, _just step back, walk away, step back, walk away WALK AWAY--_

He would probably never again forget the noise echoing in the halls as he tripped in the stairs and fell the whole way down.

Stan blinked rapidly, trying to ignore the pain. He groaned and sat up, noticing an odd shadow looming over him. He looked up and paled. "Ky-- "

"Did you see us?" his boss asked, his face as red as his hair, a thin blanket covering his still somewhat… tented groin.

"Well, uh, I, ahm..." It seemed like every word in his vocabulary had again deserted him. It often seemed to be the case with Kyle. "Well, kinda."

"Fuck," Kyle mumbled, hiding his face behind his hand. "Look, I… I'm sorry, I should have probably locked the door. Mary, the old maid, she never… I'm sorry." He let go of his face and stared at Stan, eyes lowering in embarrassment, then widening. He looked back up, shocked. "You…" he breathed.

Stan pretended that he didn't know what was going on. Maybe Kyle hadn't noticed anything. Hopefully. "What?" he asked, eyes very clear. "Uh, I'm sorry for interrupting you, I mean, I'll... I'll just go back to my work..."

But before he could run away yet again, Kyle kneeled and stared at him intently. "You're gay," he said. "There's no other explanation… for that."

"What?" Stan jerked, honestly surprised. When Kyle's look didn't magically turn into a laughter, _"ha ha, fooled you, stupid college drop-out!",_ Stan suddenly felt even more embarrassed than he already was. "No... that's, that's idiotic, of course I'm not! I'm not!" Not bothering to hide the bulge in his pants anymore, he got up and ran. Literally. "I need to get back to work!"

That, naturally, did not prevent Kyle from leaving gay porn magazines on his bed that night.

* * *

_To Be Continued _(hopefully in 2010!)

-Fletset & eishi


End file.
